Wandering Ideas
by Hydok
Summary: Collection of DCMK oneshots
1. Chapter 1

_Romeo does not marry Juliet…_

Eventually, _(after mourning for far too long)_ she winds up with the boy she could spend the rest of her life with. And she never regrets it _(because that would be foolish)_.

She marries him, and there is nothing wrong with that _(no matter what might have been, if things had worked out differently)_. And it works, and they comfort each other, and are devoted to each other, and are comfortable _(she never wanted to be comfortable, she wanted to be happy)_. Her life moves on, like a quiet brook, normalcy and peace _("I want to be a star. And not just any star. A supernova, one that goes along and then suddenly it's all fire and power and then that's that" and he was, and after the supernova there is nothing but the black hole). _They argue rarely, and when they do it is all silence on her part and withheld words on his _(not like it could have been, intense and fiery, all action and insults)_.

He is all ice, cold blue eyes and pale hair and polite mannerisms and when they fight he holds his words inside until they melt and are gone _(nothing like the wild intensity she once almost loved)_. But she has seen him melt, as rarely as she melts, both raised without the idea of love, both accustomed to neglect, and _(sometimes)_ she knows _(thinks)_ that this is the best thing that could have happened to her, that her father and his parents were right, and they are perfect for each other. Because it would have been foolish _(but maybe, oh so wonderful) _for her to have ignored the voices of reason in her life, and to have trusted someone who would have ruined _(perfected) _her future.

…_and it is not a tragedy because no one dies._


	2. Chapter 2

A snowflake hits the window, and then another, and another, and another, a sort of macabre imitation of those Christmas cards, with the little town and the little children and the warm golden glow from the windows of families. But the streets are faded, and the walls are cracked and splintered, and the laughter has long faded away. Just snow and starlight and the hissing wail of air-raid sirens. It reminds him of a history lesson, about a war a long time ago.

His hands tighten on the mug of tea he is holding, and he breathes slowly, deeply, as if the scent is enough to fill him. No matter what else has changed, tea is always the same. Not much a millennia and more can do to change the brew he remembers from his childhood. The scent of bergamot and black tea and milk, and the feeling of steam on his lips. Wedging himself around the fire, an elbow bumps his, and the tea splashes a bit, drips on the dark woven wool of his scratchy, fingerless gloves. Six of them are standing around the old oil drum, with a guttering flame to warm them, burning paper and the legs of chairs, mostly old men and exhausted women, graying hair and lined faces. He can see on their faces that he should not be here, that he should be in a dogfight in the sky, or manning one of the anti-aircraft guns.

His leg aches, a throbbing pain low on his right shin, as if someone with glasses and eyes too old for their age had kicked him. Again. It is his one-thousandth, three-hundred and sixty-seventh Christmas, and there are planes flying overhead and air raid sirens and it feels like the London Blitz, in war he is too young to remember and he is standing at an oil drum outside of a soup kitchen, clutching a mug of quickly-cooling tea as if it is his life.

"I used to be a detective," and his whisper catches the ear of the faded man standing next to him, who shoots an odd look over at him, but he doesn't care. "And after that, I was an artist. Then a business man. I," he says, with a little short laugh, looking up to meet the sunken eyes of the tiny woman across from him, a dark young-old girl with a pretty face, despite the worry lines, "I was even a thief for a time, but that didn't suit me."

They glance at each other around the sputtering coals, and don't say anything. It's obvious on their faces though; they think he's insane. He's not.

"Then I was a soldier," and comprehension on their faces, though they are thinking of a different war, and a different government, and of almost a different. His war had starships and space stations, and he fought on the surface of a moon that is no longer there. Their war is biplanes and bombing the streets of whatever city this is that used to be in what used to be England. He has always been loyal to his motherland, and this country is where he stays.

"Now --- " but he cuts off at the sudden hissing roar that comes from everywhere and nowhere, and there is an instant of panic in their faces, in his own face before the bomb hits and he feels himself ragdolling backwards and towards the wall of the building. There is enough time to see their expressions as the fire hits, to see the girl across from him as her mouth opens in a startled little o, as their little can of ashes tips over, as his own hands fly up to protect his face and the cheap ceramic mug goes spiraling away, spilling across the snow. Then the wall, and the skull-crushing impact that he knows he will walk away from.

He stands, leaning shakily against the wall, supporting himself on it, and casts his eyes around wreckage, the bodies and debris. There is blood on the snow, and he studies it, tracking patterns of impact and movement from the markings. A snowflake hits, and another, and another, until the little white specks cover over the splatters, and the street is calm.


End file.
